


A Study In Flesh

by thesacredgrove



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Choking, Deepthroating, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Feels, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Mind Palace, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Snogging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2017-12-23 00:10:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesacredgrove/pseuds/thesacredgrove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the jokes at his expense, and his seeming naivety - Sherlock Holmes was neither unschooled nor uninterested in the acts of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Case of the Difficult Detective

[](http://thesacredgrove.tumblr.com)  
  
_“Over thinking, over analyzing_  
 _Separates the body from the mind.”_  
  
 - Tool: _Lateralus_

* * *

Dark curls fell over closed eyes exactly the same way they did when he was lost in thought, playing his violin. Except Sherlock Holmes was not playing his violin: he was having his cock sucked. In fact, the consulting detective's impressive manhood was currently being deep-throated by yours truly.

He was sitting upright with head tilted back, speaking to the ceiling, "Extraordinary technique," he breathed, struggling to remain in control by choosing his words deliberately. Shifting his weight slightly under me, he reached out to brush one of my long hairs away from my face.

I didn't want to admit it to myself, but I thought he may have been uncomfortable.  
  
"You were 15 years old when you had your braces removed,” he announced.

I stopped for a few seconds to look up at him, then resumed my work.

“13 when they were installed."

I stopped again, this time for just a heartbeat.  
  
"Tr--"

I freed one hand from the base of his cock while he spoke, found his perfect mouth and covered it unceremoniously mid-word. Coughing slightly, I took a deep breath and slid his rigid shaft out over my lips, a thick rope of saliva dangling from my tongue down to the tip of his head.

"I've been waiting an _excruciatingly_ long time for all of this," I admitted, lifting my head to meet his gaze, "and I plan to enjoy myself."  
Wiping all hints of exasperation from my voice, I murmured, "I would love it if you'd allow yourself to do the same."

For just a moment he looked conflicted; shook my hand away from his mouth with a sudden turn of his head. In an instant, that look was gone.

Pushing a few strands of tousled hair away from pale almond eyes, I took my time running my fingers through his headful of curls.  
  
"I know it's hard for you,” I whispered, moving my hand to cradle an elegant cheekbone.  
“Please trust me.”

Sherlock, saying nothing, simply leaned forward and reached a hand for my face. He dragged his thumb across my lips and chin, wiping away wetness that had fallen there.

Instead of withdrawing his hand when its work was done, he gently wrapped it around my neck. Eyes full of intent and reverence never left mine as he barely squeezed.

"And, please … " I added, my voice cracking, "don't make me tie you up." Suddenly dry-mouthed, I swallowed hard, "At least, not yet."

It wouldn't have taken the intellect of Sherlock Holmes to deduce that my increasing arousal was making it difficult for me to speak. This state of affairs was directly caused by his hand circling my throat.

"We'll get to that," he smirked, adding a nearly impalpable amount of force to his grasp, "We'll get to _all of that_ ," he repeated, more as a mantra for himself than for my benefit.

Sherlock could undoubtedly detect my pulse quickening under his slender fingers, see my blush and dilating pupils. His smile widened and I recognized it; delicious, closed-mouthed, cocky. This particular smile was usually reserved for his proudest moments: when he had observed the overlooked, solved a mystery or cracked a case.

I'm sure his triumphant grin came from the fact that he already knew me well. It's true – he no doubt had most of my predilections mapped out in his mind. However, my sweet detective's victory was a bit premature, as there was one thing he _had_ overlooked: I was on my way to unraveling his mysteries as well.

I would solve him like the riddle he was; by morning, we would both be cracked - not unlike one of his difficult cases.


	2. The Adventure of the Confused Consultant

_"Forget your fear  
and want no more."_

_\- VNV Nation, Arclight_

* * *

I took my hand from Sherlock's face and placed it softly over his at my throat. He loosened his already light grip and let me pull him away from there. Bringing him to my mouth, I kissed wrist, open palm and slender fingers. The delicate but strong extremities flicked under my chin and over my nose as I touched them to my lips. Delighted, I licked dampness from his thumb – some of that thick saliva he had just wiped from my face.

Sherlock grew serious for a moment, his victorious smile fading into stony calm again. He swallowed hard, his gaze full of resolve as he curled his long fingers around my cheek, cupping my face. His eyes turned almost glassy as he moved them over my features, settling heavily on my lips. Methodically - deliberately - he smoothly plunged his thumb between them, over my teeth and deep into my mouth in one fluid motion.

Our eyes locked and I melted, remembering what had just been here instead of this thumb. I made sure he remembered, too; mimicking what I had already done to a much more sensitive spot, I sucked his probing digit with care.

He noticeably winced and quickly squeezed his eyes shut, as though trying to block out sensation. I could see him shuffling through the contents of his mind, deep in thought, desperately searching for something. This was killing him – I knew it was. He was fighting something inside himself and I was clearly not making it any easier for him.

“Why must you be so bloody _perfect_?” he seethed through clenched teeth.

It amazed me, how strong-willed he must be to dance between wanting so much and fighting against it. I took his hand in both of mine and pulled his thumb out of my mouth the same way I had released his cock a few moments prior.

“Ask yourself the same.” I said plainly.

Sherlock shook his head vehemently, pulled mine close to his with both hands. Our foreheads touched as he frantically cocooned me in fingers, forearms and pointed elbows. He drew his knees close to his chest and wrapped shins and ankles around me as well.

"I can solve any puzzle you put to me,” he mouthed into my eyes, a bit louder and more sharply than I expected, “but for the love of _God_ I cannot sort out _why_ you would want to be wrapped up in what _I_ am."

Holding me perfectly still inside his armor of limbs, his voice was a staccato shield of words; again, deliberately chosen to keep him grounded. He was wrestling with letting me in – with letting go of himself - and he had no referee.

"Don't be afraid," I murmured, reaching to stroke his hair from under his embrace.

He slowly started rocking us back and forth, “Intimacy is dangerous ...” his words trailed off, “Losing _control_ … feeling like _this_ …”  


Still huddled close to me, he whispered, “ _Love_ …"

A breath.  
A pause.

“... is … a liability … but … I ...“

I pulled away from Sherlock just enough to put a finger to his lips. He seized my wrist, faster and harder than he needed to and held it too tightly. I don't know if he did this knowing it would arouse me, or if it was simply out of genuine frustration.

“ _You terrify me_ ,” he belted, letting go of me roughly.

I bit my lip. Part of me was excited; the brilliant Sherlock Holmes: admitting fear of desire and emotions and of me for making him feel them. Part of me was still aroused, and aroused anew after being manhandled again. The rest of me felt awful for pushing him too hard, too fast.

“I … I'm sorry,” I stammered, looking away in shame, “You don't have to … to do anything you don't want to,“ I tried to put my hunger for him aside, spreading my hands against his chest and pushing back slightly, ”I … don't want to take anything from you you're not ready to give me."

I wiped my mouth with the back of my wrist in an attempt to wipe away the shame I felt for pushing him too far, and for enjoying it. He seized my head in both of his elegant hands again, shakingly brought it to his. We were eye to eye once more, both of us unblinking.

"How can you not _see_?!" Sherlock exclaimed, his eyes the wildest I had ever seen them, "I do not have a **choice**!” He shouted, wavering.

My detective closed his eyes, slowed his frenzied breathing, and calmed himself before continuing.

“This body is no longer mine to give,” he said almost whispering, his voice a timid murmur now, ”It is yours already and has been for some time."

A sharp intake of breath as I shuddered visibly, blood rushing to my sex, my eyes closing against the weight of his words. In the blackness behind my eyelids I see visions of him - all alabaster skin and sharp contours. In one vision he is alone, pleasuring himself with long strokes in the dark: first whispering, then moaning, then shouting my name … in another, he is naked and kneeling, alone in his study thinking of me, touching himself, releasing in heavy rivulets all over the polished hardwood floors.

Alone - always alone.

My eyes flare open and I meet his gaze.

“You're not alone,” I said quietly, “You don't have to be alone. But, there's more than that - isn't there?”

He nodded slowly, his eyes averted from mine.

“It's not just your body I want,” I caressed his cheek with the back of my fingers, “You know that, right?” He continued his slow nod while I spoke.

Sherlock replied, almost voiceless, “I don't need to be a detective to see that in your eyes,” he smiled barely, almost shy, “or to feel it in your touch.”

His breath was coming in shallow groups as I caressed his neck and stopped at the indent of his collarbone. He took my hand from his skin, looked at its wrist – pink areas raised from his rough handling – then brought it to his mouth. He showered it with kisses I had only been able to imagine before today.

Shaking his head, curls fell over his eyes, “I'm sorry,” he said seriously, his lips forming words while still pressed to my skin, “I'm sorry if I hurt you.”

I shook my head as well.

“If you really want to be sorry for that,” I whispered, swallowing hard, “be sorry it didn't happen while your cock was buried inside of me.”

It was his turn to gasp and shudder visibly. His manhood surged between us, its urgency of form almost forgotten during the gravity of our exchange. I looked down at him, proud and heavy. He was full of want and our tangled limbs parted just enough for me to reach him. I used the tip of one finger to trace his rigid outline – tip to base on top, then back up again from underneath, stopping to stroke the sensitive point on the underside of his head. Darling Sherlock's mouth opened, releasing a nearly silent moan.

“What _exactly_ do you want?” he asked breathlessly.  
"I ... need to do this properly.”

My mind reeled. There was so much.

“I want to show you how I feel,” I said, unashamed now.  
“I'll accept whatever you want to give me in return.”

He smiled shyly again, “That's a terse - albeit lovely - answer,” he paused, eyeing me while his smile faded into a hard stare.  
“Now, tell me the rest,” his voice coaxed; his eyes demanded.

“The rest, you already know.” I responded.

“Clearly,” Sherlock's eyes were hungry, his voice soft, “but I need to hear it.”

His manhood fell under my hand again; I grabbed him as I spoke, squeezing firmly, “I want to feel your hands around my throat while we make love,” a heavy sigh escaped his lips, “ ... I want to hold you down and fuck you.”  
I tugged at his hardness for emphasis and he shuddered once more, “... I want this in my throat again, then inside of me while you make me come. I want to make you explode a hundred times in a hundred different ways.”

I could see in his eyes that he was falling apart, more with each word that left my mouth.

“I want everything we can invent to do to each other,” softening, I continued, “but more than anything, once we're exhausted - I want to get inside your head, curl up there and fall asleep.”

It was an odd thing to say, but genuine. He needed to know that it wasn't just tousled hair, an impeccable collarbone or the way he carried himself that I coveted; it was also his brilliant mind, his troubled emotions and even his ridiculous habits that I wanted to taste.  
  
He smiled, and this time it was neither triumphant nor shy. It was simply joyful.

"Well," he mused, reaching for the top button of my shirt with both hands, fingering it gingerly, "luckily my Mind Palace has a lovely master suite – complete with a rather large bed."

 

* * *

**End Part One**


	3. A Suggestion of Cherry

 

__

  
_"When the flood calls_  
 _You have no home, you have no walls."_

_\- Peter Gabriel, Here Comes The Flood_

* * *

  
“You're wearing a matching bra and panty set,” he said, leaning in close to work the top button of my shirt through its button-hole.

“Leopard-print,” he added.

We had moved from the plush carpeted floor of Sherlock's den to his richly appointed bedroom. He'd sat me on the edge of the bed - all pale linens and feather pillows – and was crouching before me, between my spread legs.

I grinned, “I know better than to accuse you of guessing,” I said.

He was right of course. I  _was_  wearing a brand new leopard print set - one I had purchased just for tonight. He had no earthly way of knowing any of this, yet he knew it just the same.

“I never guess,” he whispered, smiling gently into my eyes. His agile fingers continued down from my collar, over the fleecy material of my shirt, unfastening one button after the next methodically.

When Sherlock lingered over the fourth button, my breath left me. Inhaling again, I caught a hint of his hair – a soft suggestion of fresh cherries. I chased the scent and buried my face in the fragrance of his chestnut mane, brushing errant curls into line with my fingers. He reached a hand up to the back of my neck, under my hair to clutch at my nape. Pulling me down to him, mouth touched skin when he gently brushed his lips to my collarbone. Deft tongue found the deep indent there and darted inside. I sighed heavily, thinking of this tongue and what else it could do. My throat hummed under him as he kissed and licked his way up, stopping at my chin.

My mouth opened; I was about to speak but Sherlock did not give me the chance. His lips met mine, softly at first - slow and tentative. The longer our mouths intertwined, the more urgent our kisses became. When I moved down to just his bottom lip, I bit it gently and he violently fell apart. Moaning loudly, whole handfuls of my hair were caught up in his balled fists as he pushed his tongue deep in my mouth. I know he tasted himself - just a hint, but it did not repulse him; he seemed to kiss me with more fervor because of it. Returning his force with my own, my tongue snapped out and gently dueled with his, exciting me all the more. I grasped at his chest, clutching fistfuls of shirt as the corners of his lips curled into a smile.

The more forcefully we kissed, the more fevered I became. Clearly Sherlock was feeling the same; I saw his manhood stir through his trousers, it having been tucked back into his form-fitting boxer-briefs and pants before our walk from the den. Reaching down, I managed to brush it gently through the fabric of his clothes; there I felt him straining against the crisp cotton, hard and unabashed. Wanting him out again - in my hand at least - I tugged at his zipper but Sherlock would have no part of it.

“You've done so much already,” he breathed, his mouth still pressed against mine, “Just relax.”

I withdrew my hand from his zipper, letting him win for the moment, “I suppose I've been selfish enough for one night,” I said, only half-joking. I had been admittedly self-serving in my actions tonight, physically but also emotionally.

“I'm the selfish one,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes. His lids were heavy, falling against a great weight. Thoughts of all the times I'd reached out to him only to watch him step away at the last moment ran through my mind. Undoubtedly, they were running through his as well.

“I've made you wait an eternity for me,” he whispered. My detective had known for a very long time how I felt about him. He'd seen my emotions slowly turn from want into need: to have his heart, to have him acknowledge his feelings for me ... to have his hands on my body, his cock in my mouth, and so much more.

“I might have given up a long time ago if I couldn't see how much you wanted this,” I said, “Luckily, your eyes often betray you when you look at me.”

Sherlock did it then: his lids flew open and he looked up at me with _those eyes_. Pale and breathtaking, stormy gray and starved. Haunted and hunted and so in need.

“You were not observing betrayal of emotion,” Sherlock said curtly, “but truth.” A splash of pain appearing in his voice, he added, “Coated in fear.”

I melted into him now, running my fingers through his hair and pressing my mouth against his once more. His body answered by surging up to meet my kiss as another moan met my ears. He half-stood, half-knelt on the bed, left knee rubbing the outside of my thigh while lips gave way to tongues and teeth. My shirt-buttons began to fall open under his hands again; soon enough the entire row fell victim to him as they were all undone. The soft cloth brushed my ribs as it divided in two, hanging loosely for a moment as he pulled his lips from mine. Using the time apart wisely, he ran his eyes over the stripe of skin he'd exposed. Hands roamed slowly where eyes had dared to stray and I dissolved under his touch, all of me hungry for more.

My right shoulder was next to fall under those hands. Sherlock dragged a single finger against my skin, hooking under the fabric at my collar and pulling through all material he encountered. As the joint bared itself to him, he moved his lips over the path he had made, tracing my lines with his mouth. I gasped loudly, his hot breath teasing my bare skin. When he reached a lacy leopard-print strap, he smirked proudly to himself and brushed it aside with a finger. The sensation of his warm smile widening against my flesh sent me reeling. As he moved to do the same with the other shoulder, my sudden motion stopped him.

Before he could refuse me again I began to undress him, starting at the neck. The top two buttons of his shirt were already undone; the perfectly ironed purple fabric parted to show off his immaculate marble neck and collarbone. I began on the remaining ones which were already straining against his musculature when Sherlock interrupted my work.

“At least let me finish with yours,” he pleaded, his voice soft and filling my ears. Shifting to put both feet on the floor, he moved to my other shoulder with purpose. Flicking the shirt away from my breast, he slid it down my arm with the deliberateness of a surgeon. His hands moved down my other limb with care to free both arms from their fabric prison.

Sherlock paused for a moment, simply standing before me with my shirt cradled in both of his hands. I looked up at him just as he brought it to his face and inhaled deeply, eyes closed.

Opening his eyes, I could tell he felt awkward under my gaze.

”I apologize if I'm … taking too long,” he said, stooping to place the shirt on the bed next to me, “You may have noticed that I tend to dwell on certain minutia.”

He moved a hand to cradle my head which I was already shaking, “Small details that most dismiss as trivial are of the utmost importance to me.”

Still shaking my head I replied, “Nothing about this is trivial.”

He smiled, taking his hand from my face and bringing it close to his own, “I want to capture everything that happens between us in vivid detail - _here_ ,“ he tapped an elegant finger at his temple for emphasis, “I need to.”

I nodded now, brought the side of my head in close to his body and wrapped my arms around his mid-section, squeezing tightly, “Please, no more apologies,” I breathed, sounding a bit more somber than I'd intended, “This is all too perfect for apologies.”

I could hear Sherlock run fingers through his curls with one hand then rest both on my head, “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, stroking my hair. Barely audible, he added, “Such a puzzle.”

We stayed locked together like this for a few moments. Silent, all the while he touching my hair. I could feel his pulse gently moving through him, the side of my face pressed against his body. After long seconds, I turned my head up and toward his to find him already staring down at me.

"The idea that I might never be with you," I stumbled over the words escaping my throat, “terrified me ever since ...” I trailed off, swallowing hard. Bringing my hands back above my eye-level, I began to loose each of his remaining shirt buttons in turn, “ever since I realized I couldn't go on without you.”

Unblinking, he replied, “The only thing that frightened me more than thinking I wouldn't be able to do this was realizing how much I wanted to.”

He breathed in, deeply.

The last of his buttons fell open and I was rewarded with an unobstructed view of his torso. Pale and tight and lean; neck, collar, chest and abdomen bared to me at last. Moving my hands over his skin, he shivered slightly as my mouth met his flesh. I brought my lips to the muscled stomach in front of me, kissing then licking the curves and lines I found. The slightest hint of soft cherry delighted my senses as I pulled him down on top of me, tugging his shirt off a shoulder.

"And by _God_ ," he said quietly, coming in close enough to kiss my lips,  "I _certainly_   want to.”


	4. The Feeling and The Hunger

 

  _“Come down and learn to love and be alive,  
_ _For thee, a well-prized gift, today I give.”_

_\- William Morris,_ _The Earthly Paradise: Pygmalion and the Image_

* * *

Sherlock caught his weight on an elbow as I pulled him down on top of me. Our mouths met while I finally wrenched the shirt from his back and tossed it to the floor. The kiss was ardent but tender - all slow tongues, soft lips and wordless sighs. As it continued, he forced a hand beneath me, behind my back; I arched myself upward as a twist of nimble fingers unhooked my bra. Coming back around, he slowly slid the left strap from my shoulder. Dragging his mouth away from mine, he also scattered kisses over my skin as he did so. I sat upright and helped him pull the rest off, tossing it to meet his violet button-up already discarded.

My detective moved upright with me; crossed his legs, sitting wide-eyed and silent as I bared myself to him. Long dark hair and a smile were all I wore from the waist up.

I was a bit cold, but not cold enough to cover up. A warm down comforter was within reach, but I wanted to give him an unobstructed view of my torso; my breasts are one of my favorite features. Proud and well-proportioned to my petite frame, I wanted them bare so he could drink me in.

"Were you chiseled from marble?” he asked, grinning and breathless.

I laughed and shook my head as he passed smiling eyes over me. Pale skin, splendid curves and the undiluted desire on my face met his gaze. He stretched a hand out, brushing his fingers over the peaks of my breasts with reverence. They were already hard but somehow grew more excited beneath his touch.

"So perfect."

The words left his throat deep and slow, he flattening his palm against my sternum a little at a time until he finished the enunciation. Spreading fingers wide against my chest, he pushed slightly against me as I had done to him earlier in the den.

But he wasn't pushing me away. If I hadn't known better, I would've thought he was making sure I was real.

"I should tell you -” Sherlock stopped, took a breath, closed his eyes and turned his head away from me. He left his hand in place, still and warm. The heat from it radiated into my skin.

"I should tell you, that I haven't done this in a very long time.”

Whether his statement was meant as a warning or as a hint that he wasn't a virgin, I wasn't sure. However, I was sure that - despite the jokes at his expense, and his seeming naivety - Sherlock Holmes was neither unschooled nor uninterested in the acts of love.

I put a hand over his, seized it in mine, brought it to my lips to kiss. Leaning into him, I brushed the hair from his temple in a single motion; in another, moved his hand in mine to cup one bare breast - hand over hand over heart. I heard him let out a ragged breath as I put my mouth to his ear.

"Don't toy with me,” I whispered, smiling to myself, “I know that you can swing _that cock_ , and I can tell by the way you carry yourself that _you know it, too_.”

It was a fairly ridiculous thing to say, I knew. But I let the words fall from my mouth into the curve of his ear anyway, lips just brushing the soft hairs at his temple. He let out a soft moan - almost a growl - and tightened his grip on me. The feeling of his gentle hand being rough sent waves of heat through my body.

"Remember, you're not the only one here with some skills of observation,” I continued, running first a finger and then the tip of my tongue lightly down the line of his ear.

Sherlock turned his face to me again and we locked eyes. He paused a moment, the air between us becoming heavy with want. He reached his free hand to touch my cheek; even with what I considered intimate information about this man, the tenderness and warmth of that touch surprised me.

My words may have been ridiculous, but looking into him I could see they had melted away any doubts he had left, leaving behind only the feeling and the hunger I knew bloomed within him.

The look on his face told me that at long last, my detective was truly, utterly and completely mine.

 

**End Part Two**


	5. Incandescence

  
  


_“This old familiar craving -_  
 _I've been here before, this way of behaving._  
 _Don't know who the hell I'm saving anymore._  
 _Let it pass let it go let it leave -_  
 _From the deepest place I grieve._  
 _This time I believe."_

_-_ Peter Gabriel: _Love to Be Loved_

* * *

A switch had been flipped. Like a bulb flickering to life, my detective's passion had become incandescent.

Sherlock moved a hand to the back of my neck, pulled my face close to his. Small sounds of pleasure met my ears as our noses touched, hungry mouth meeting mine, wet and wanting. I returned his kisses in kind, tongue slipping passed his while lips dared to part to the storm.

The hand at my breast grew bolder, gripping and kneading my flesh with growing abandon as our mouths became increasingly reckless. I could not help but moan as fist clenched and fingers pulled, his name a prayer breathed over and over. Letting himself fall forward, bare chest pressed to bare chest, Sherlock pushed me flat again and twisted his lips from mine, breathless.

Gasping, he took air into his lungs in heavy groups, mouth open to longing. Hovering above me, he flicked his tongue out over his lips, savoring the wetness there and trying to calm himself. I did the same while reaching out with frail hands to touch those lips, drenched in desire.

It was agony to be away from their softness. I pawed his face gently and pulled at him to return them to me.

Sherlock obliged, leaning over and allowing one more kiss - deep and tender - before separating himself from me again. His attention shifted to lower on my body; hands and eyes moved over pale skin with the gentlest of intent, stopping at those breasts that hold my pride. Softly framing one with his long musician's fingers, he moved low and brought it to his mouth.

I quickly became lost in the sensation of falling apart as that gracious mouth kissed and licked my skin. He worked a soft pattern with his lips, moving through increasingly decadent spirals until he was lapping at my collar. The soft scent of cherry came over me again as my hands misplaced themselves in his fragrant curls. I strained to inhale as much of him as I could while he moved to my other bare breast, dragging his tongue delicately from the underside to the peak and back again.

He touched and tasted me like I was made of glass. It was torture. I believe it was for him as well: moving my hands over his head and shoulders, I felt a tension lurking in him. My detective was a coiled spring in my arms.

"I'm not too fragile,” I whispered, sensing he was holding back; not wanting him to.

Sherlock stopped, his tongue still teasing a sensitive peak. Darting up, he put himself face-to-face with me. There was more I planned to say but his eyes, hot with hidden flame, stopped me before I could continue.

"I have ... an addictive personality,” he whispered, staring into me, “You know that.”

It wasn't a question – it was a statement. I nodded anyway, gazing at him and watching something boil inside.

"I obsess. I throw myself into my work. I lose myself in research, cases,” he trailed off, his voice barely a whisper by the end.

"Sometimes, I get bored and lose myself in ... _other things_."

Shaking my head I said, “You don't have to explain yourself.”

It was Sherlock's turn to shake his head.

"No, but I do,” he continued, "My point is: I get lost in things. I am going to get lost in _this_."

Following a finger with his gaze, he traced a curve from my collar to a breast, stopping only to look up at me from a hawkish angle.

"It will be hard for me to find my way out.”

Our eyes locked as I brushed the hair from his brow. I placed a finger under his chin and lifted it, looking directly into his stormy face.

"Good,” I said quietly.

His features softened; that finger tracing down started what a whole hand would finish – a clenched fist full of flesh, gripping harder this time, only released when I moaned his name once more.

_" Sherlock. "_

He closed his eyes, smiled wide, and began to move the powerful hand away. One of mine, so much smaller than his, flew to it and squeezed it hard, demanding it stay.

"Impatient, aren't we,” he said.

Another statement - not a question.

"Yes,” I replied, “for you, yes - _yes_. You're not the only obsessed addict here.”

He winced imperceptibly.

"I _need_ you,” I sighed, softening the unintended blow.

Sherlock paused for a moment, not sure if he should smile to himself or not. He let the grin come, and with it one final squeeze of massaged skin yearning for more before he broke away.

Both hands moved to my face then, hard and strong. The fingers of one found my mouth and fell inside. I sucked them as he took my whole jaw in the other, pulling my face up to meet his coming down to kiss my lips.

We crashed into each other full force, Sherlock's fingertips the only thing cushioning the space between us. My detective's reckless mouth tasted of fire – all hot metal and smoldering science – and its force was irresistible. I repaid his power in kind, kissing him deeply and placing a hand against his solid chest, centering myself. Those burning lips curled into a smile even while their devouring mouth remained locked on mine.

Heat radiated from his core into me as our kiss evolved from simple actions into something deeper. Frantic mouths grew even more audacious while arms and hands lost themselves around necks and stomachs, backs and shoulders and thighs. I shuddered beneath him as he untangled fingers from my hair just in time to stumble on the waistband of my skirt.

Sherlock tore himself away and met my gaze with a drunken look, a fine line of saliva falling from the corner of his open mouth.

"Why are you still wearing clothes?” he panted.

He began to grasp and claw at the fabric, but I couldn't bare to be away from that hot mouth. Returning to it feverishly, I let loose on him as a famished hunter, searching through lip and tongue for prey with the boldness of a lion. His mouth met mine with a similar hunger but left quickly, realizing he was ill-equiped to navigate button and zipper while so distracted. Promptly dealing with both, he urged me to lift my hips to make the rest easier for him to remove.

"Who's impatient now?” I asked, smiling.

Stretching catlike under his hands, I used my body to help him work the skirt down my legs, over my thighs, the tops of my tall socks and off my feet. Speechless, he took a long moment to take me in: pale skin, ribs, thigh-highs and hip bones. He let the cotton of my clothes fall forgotten from his hands and off the edge of the bed.

"There is something I need that only you possess,” he said at length, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand.

Words started to fail me then. This man was Sherlock Holmes, but at five-hundred degrees; finally sharing his white-hot desire and opening himself to me – to my heart, to my ivory skin, to my thick cable-knit and indulgent lace.

One then both of his elegant hands hovered over that lace for a thoughtful moment.

"You know I want to rip these off,” he said, just brushing my panties with his fingertips, “but I won't,” he whispered.

Passing over the thin animal-print, he continued, “Not yet. I know they're for me and I want to enjoy them.”

"It's all for you,” I said quickly.

Smiling wide, his voice was bright as he replied.

"You've been  _so generous_ ,” he said, his words turning more serious as he spoke, “It will be _such a pleasure_ to repay that kindness.”

His voice was heavy with want. Its tone made me forget to breathe for a moment.

I finally opened my mouth to reply, but as Sherlock trailed a finger along the thin elastic at my hip, my words were lost in my throat. He began sliding slowly across and down the fabric, teasing the lacy spot between my thighs.

It didn't take long for him to realize how much of my arousal had already come to the surface.

"Wet,” he said surprised, rubbing his thumb over the thin fabric covering my sex, “So wet. _For me_.”

My eyelids closed beneath the weight of what was unfolding. His words hit me like a wall of flame; in that moment I was molten, constructed solely of his heated expression.

"You were so deep in my throat,” I managed to spit out, opening my eyes, "your mouth, your hands ...”

Reaching up to touch his face, I struggled to finish, ”... my neck.”

I trailed off as he breathed my name, his tone thick and deep. It was his turn to close his eyes under the weight of the moment.

While he did not stop touching me through my wet panties, his free hand moved: first to my neck, a gentle reminder that he had been there and would be there again, then onto the heavy bulge in his slacks. It had impossibly grown larger as I spoke.

"These need to come off,” Sherlock said abruptly, throwing open his trousers one-handed. The motion was both violent and erotic; I did not move to help him, recalling earlier in the den when I had all but forced myself into those chinos with neither aid nor protest. He took his hand from my sex only when he had to, after pulling the fabric open and down as far as he could with one hand.

Quietly, I watched as he stood to push the cloth down his legs and off bare feet. I took in the hard lines of skin and muscle as he moved against the material, the angles of his body only broken by the stark white of his tight boxer-briefs. It was hard for my eyes to not jump immediately to the heaviness they contained – I smiled wide when I finally let myself steal a glance of his swollen manhood straining just below the surface.

Sherlock returned to the bed slowly, spending a moment passing a hand from my panties down to my thigh-highs. I could tell he enjoyed my tall socks almost as much as I did; fingers glided back and forth over the soft skin of my thigh and the thick-textured knit many times. At length, he finally moved down to my knee, further to my calf, stopping at the ankle. My detective surprised me then, gripping both of my feet tightly - one in each hand. Bringing them first to his face to kiss and nuzzle between, he finished by swinging them wide, resting left and right gently to either side of his body and coming down to kneel inside the triangle of my legs.

Allowing myself to spread to him, I sat up just a bit and grabbed for the waistband of his pants. My fingertips hooked under the elastic as he brought the thumb he'd been dragging over my cloth-covered sex to his face.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered as he took in my scent, then pressed the digit into his mouth.

"You smell of heaven,” he said, leaning over me, “and you've made me crave a proper taste.”

 


End file.
